Sparks

Dem Dry Bones

Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page. Dem Dry Bones By William Frank Hulse III              In my hometown, the old hospital is where I was born. The same holds true for almost all of my 1947 vintage classmates. The old hospital was built in 1923 and razed in ’65 when the new hospital was completed. The memories I have of the old hospital and the memories I have of the old high school are sufficiently intertwined that I can hardly separate them. Both places were mighty scary after dark – mighty scary. Both buildings had basements with very little light from outside, so they were scary with shadows and dark corners, if the lights were out – even if it was high noon. There were classrooms in the high school basement – physics, biology, chemistry and home economics and student restrooms. The…

Sparks

Memories

Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page. Memories By Frank Hulse Confession is good for the soul. So here goes: Something I’ve been gnawing on, off and on all day like a dog bone with just a little more flavor. I can remember my combination lock from my freshman year in college. I can remember what the locker room smelled like. It was directly adjacent to the indoor swimming pool so it was primarily chlorine—but there were more than a few other smells I won’t describe here. If I see a post or a picture from a high school classmate, I can immediately hear her/his voice. I can remember church camp out at Osage Hills State Park when I was in 8th grade and showing off in the swimming pool, more or less like a peacock when it fans out its train. I…

Sparks

Dedicated to Dad

Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page. Dedicated to Dad By William Frank Hulse III  I was out on the back patio, grilling some hamburgers. After talking to the two dogs next door I sat down at a little café/bistro table my wife arranged as a little hygge spot for us. Out of the corner of my eye I caught movement and turned to see a beautiful yellow butterfly go passing by, on its way to a luncheon appointment I suppose. I smiled at the thought and then, for some reason, my father came to mind. He died 18 years ago but he has this clever way of making his presence known. Sometimes, it’s one of his nifty quotes that he borrowed from Will Rogers – a local hero of ours. Other times it’s his shadow that looms large when I’m guessing what…